


Five Years

by yuletide_archivist



Category: Venetia - Georgette Heyer
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2007-12-19
Updated: 2007-12-19
Packaged: 2018-01-25 03:48:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,280
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1629923
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yuletide_archivist/pseuds/yuletide_archivist
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Written for Mireille</p>
    </blockquote>





	Five Years

**Author's Note:**

> Written for Mireille

 

 

**1\. The Convalescence: Yorkshire, Autumn 1818**

It had all happened rather quickly. He and Jasper had played chess that evening, after Venetia had returned to Undershaw. A hard won victory on his part had led him to wonder about the relationship of chess to military strategy; the discussion had naturally, then, turned to the works of Caesar and Xenophon well known to all schoolboys. It had been a golden autumn day spent in good company; the conversation had flowed freely from topic to topic bearing him along in a bubble of bonhomie; his leg was hardly hurting him at all. He had not meant to do it: it had just seemed quite natural that he should bring the conversation around to the particular treatise of Xenophon's that had most intrigued him for some time now. And then he looked at Jasper and thought about how very much he liked him.

"So, in the _Symposium_ ," he said, "they talk about men who love each other."

"Oh?" said Jasper, still unaware, and no doubt thinking about comrades in arms.

"Yes," he said. "Especially if one man's older and more experienced, and the other's - "

"Aubrey," said Jasper, quickly and soberly, with a most annoyingly understanding expression on his face.

"I like you, Jasper," he said, mulishly.

Jasper, apparently despite himself, let out a snort of laughter.

"And I like you, you young fool, no need to be so prickly about it." He sobered again, quickly. "But I think I'm in love with your sister," he said quietly.

"Oh," said Aubrey. It had not previously occurred to him that someone of sense might fall in love with his sister, but now he thought about it, it seemed inevitable. After all, it was hard not to be fond of her; she was excellent company when one was in the mood for it; she always knew just what ought to be said; she was not over-bookish; far from having a diseased limb she was an acknowledged beauty. He looked again at Jasper, and allowed himself a moment to indulge the oddly wistful bitterness that rose in his breast.

Then he thought about what it might actually mean.

"Are you going to marry her?" he asked.

**2\. The Honeymoon: Venice, Winter 1819**

Aubrey was in his chamber, with his nose very firmly planted in an edition of Xenophon's minor works. He had placed it there four days ago, shortly after the party's arrival in Venice, and there he intended it should remain for all his waking hours until such time as they should remove to a neighbourhood with a sufficient supply of antiquities. Xenophon was an old friend, and his strictures on horseflesh and horsemanship were a considerable consolation in a city where the primary mode of transport was aquatic. In Rome, Aubrey had not been homesick even once; now he longed with every fibre of his being for his dogs and his horses, for Mr Appersett and his schoolbooks, for his own room, his own bed, and, perhaps, though he did not like to admit it even to himself, his nurse.

He supposed, begrudgingly, that he ought not to be surprised that Venetia and Jasper, normally persons of reasonable sense and respectable intelligence, seemed to have been transformed by marriage into maddening caricatures of lovebirds. They gazed only into each other's eyes; they laughed endlessly at almost entirely private jokes; they rose late and retired early; and, worst of all, they insisted on wasting precious weeks of their honeymoon in a city not even founded in Roman times, preferring afternoons spent floating on fetid waters between rotting gothic buildings to the cheerful investigation of ruins and remains. Aubrey was resigned to the probability that they would not return to Rome on this journey; he still nursed hopes that they might find some other place where they could properly pick up the happy threads of scholarly inquiry once again. In the meantime, when he was not sleeping, or trying to persuade the happy couple that their happiness would appreciably be increased if their proximity to Roman ruins were also, he - although he did not like to admit it, even to himself - sulked. He found that he sulked all the harder because, as far as he could tell, neither Venetia nor Damerel had noticed that he was doing so.

This afternoon, however, it seemed that Jasper, at least, had remembered his existence; his tread on the stair was as unmistakeable as his knock on the chamber door.

"Come in, come in," said Aubrey, trying to sound as if he were annoyed to be interrupted, rather than pathetically grateful for the attention. He made a point of not looking up until Jasper was almost upon him. "What brings you here?" he demanded.

Jasper gave a short laugh, and seated himself opposite, carelessly throwing one leg over the other.

"Like that, is it? I think I brought us here, as it happens, and I perceive that you're not happy on that account!"

"I don't care for Venice," said Aubrey stiffly. And then, perceiving the fond amusement on Damerel's face, feeling he owed something more, and also wishing to have someone to speak English to for just a little longer, he added, "truly, Jasper, I cannot see what this city has to recommend it. The streets are narrow and dark and lead nowhere. The water smells, the weather is abominable, the houses are cold and the people are brutishly ugly and unable to converse in any civilised language. There is nothing to see but popish churches, the best of which are only bad imitations of late, degenerate, Roman styles. I'd prefer to be in Rome, where there's so much still to see - and failing that, I'd much rather have my books."

"Venice has other attractions, you know," replied Jasper lightly, but seriously; it was clear that he understood Aubrey's sentiments a little too well. "Particularly for young bachelors, I might point out. I sampled them extensively before I met your sister; I can recommend them warmly."

Aubrey gave an unwilling laugh. "I'm sure your recommendations would indeed be very warm, were you to detail your exploits." He sighed, and rubbed at his hip.

"Yes, they would," agreed Damerel readily, and Aubrey couldn't help a brief flash of bitterness as he realised that Jasper was not likely ever to discuss exploits of that nature in that sort of detail with him.

"But I didn't come up here just to tell you stories about my past," Damerel continued. "I've got something much better than that for you. An invitation."

"No, thank you," Aubrey replied with as much courtesy as he could muster, trying to keep betrayal as well as the bitterness out of his voice. He had thought that Damerel had understood that he genuinely had no interest in seeing the city.

"Wait a minute!" said Damerel. "Not to see the sights, not to go to the opera, not to ride in a gondola. I know you better than that, even if you are in an odious mood tonight."

He paused for a moment, and looked consideringly at Aubrey.

"Venetia and I will be attending a - party tonight. A very particular sort of party, at a house I used to know well. It was her idea." He hesitated again, obviously aware that he was failing to engage Aubrey's enthusiasm, and looking for the right words. "I thought it might prove an - experience, a new experience that you would value. If you wished to come. Of course, as I am taking Venetia into a house of that sort I - "

But Aubrey suddenly found that his patience had come to an end, and that, he did, in fact, at this moment, want to read Xenophon more than he wanted to talk to any living person, in any language.  
"No," he said, perhaps a little too fast and definitely a little too loudly. "Just go away, go to your party with Venetia, and leave me here alone. That arrangement has suited us all very well all week, and it will continue to do so."

"Now look here - " started Damerel.

"GO AWAY!" cried Aubrey, realising with some slight sensation of panic that he was, in fact, on the verge of crying. But Damerel was, as ever, watching him closely, with a light in his eye that was kindly without being patronising; and now he simply nodded, and said, "well, then, I shall go. I shall be in my chamber if you want me this afternoon," and rose, and left the room.

Aubrey returned his nose to Xenophon's familiar bosom quickly, before he had any time to think at all.

**3\. The Tour: Greece, Spring, 1820**

Venetia was a little disappointed in the marbles.

"I think the ones we saw in London were rather better," she said, consideringly.

"They were the same ones, stoopid" Aubrey said in fond irritation. "That is, the ones displayed in London came from here. Where you see a missing patch like that one, it's probably because Lord Elgin's chipped them out and shipped `em off home. It's too bad - I can't remember what's supposed to happen up there, and you didn't bring your sketches"

"It is just as well he took them," cried Dimitry Panopoulos, their friend and guide. "I wish he had taken more. Soon the Turks will destroy what remains, as they are destroying all Greece!"

Mr Panopoulos was a serious young gentleman, with an elegantly classical profile, tidily curly hair, and a certain neatness of dress; he surely could not be more than two and twenty. His English was excellent, the product of a excellent education finished by a stint in the London office of an uncle's shipping operation. Usually calm and somewhat shy, his passion for his nation's classical past could lead him to abandon his habitual reserve, and indeed, this was how he had made the acquaintance of Lord Damerel's party at Nafplion. Hearing, by chance, Aubrey's speculation about the antiquity of the city's fortifications, he could not help but break in and explain the that they were Byzantine in origin, and alas, not classical at all. Aubrey, of course, had responded by asking him about the genuine antiquities that might then be found in the neighbourhood; and Mr Panopoulos had opened up like a blossom in the Spring. At first returning answers to every question, soon, providing his own suggestions as to the most satisfying possible itinerary for an English philhellene visiting Greece for the first time, Mr Panopoulos had finally suggested that Mr Lanyon and his friends should return with him to dine with his family, and accept the hospitality of his abode while they were in town. Aubrey had been about to enthusiastically accept this excellent suggestion when his sister intervened.

"Surely, sir," Venetia had demurred gently, though with dancing eyes - she and Damerel had been sharing glances for some time now - "a party of visitors at such short notice would be a great imposition on your father's household; we could not in all conscience accept your most generous offer." Mr Panopoulos had seemed a little surprised at being addressed by the lady, and much distressed by her sentiments. He had been momentarily lost for words, and Aubrey could well believe he might be offended; he had been rather offended himself at the thought of missing out on the benefit of such a splendid fellow's company.

"He wouldn't have asked us if he didn't mean it," he had said firmly to his sister. "You wouldn't, would you?" he asked Mr Panopoulos, and sure enough, the young man had replied at once, "but of course not!" And turning his attention back to Aubrey, he had continued, "I must insist you accept my invitation! So rarely does one have the opportunity for such civilised conversation! I would be in your debt!" Damerel's amused acceptance had settled the matter, and since then Aubrey and Dimitry had been thick as thieves. Dimitry had acted as a most generous host and guide, insisting on accompanying them to Athens to better expound the once and future glories of Greece to his most learned English friend, his sister, and his brother-in-law.

At Dimitry's latest outburst, Venetia and Damerel shared a smile, but forbore to comment, as they quickly learned to do when the question of Turkish rule was raised; Mr Panopoulos' sentiments were as fixed as they were fiery. Aubrey, however, did not see why this precluded a proposition from being considered on its merits.

"No," he said. "It's a nuisance having the marbles in two places so far apart; in fact it's silly. They should all be here. It's much harder to see what the Parthenon must have been without them, and that's what's important. Even if the Turks don't care for it, the rest of the world does. The people who matter, anyway."

Dimitry was much struck, as he often seemed to be by Aubrey's pronouncements; he agreed with him at once, and indeed expand further upon the point. Aubrey found himself, once again, admiring the fellow: his learning was impressive, his judgement sound, his manner most flatteringly attentive; and perhaps it was also germane that, with his classical features and superb physique, he might have served as a model for some long-dead sculptor. Aubrey found himself entirely at a loss, however, as to how he might communicate the full scope of his admiration to Dimitry. Besides, he was not quite sure what might result should he do so. It was, he had already concluded, much better to stay on ground he could cover with confidence.

"That drapery really is particularly fine," he said, pointing at the frieze. "You can see every fold of the cloth, but also every muscle in the thigh below." Dimitry came and stood by him, close at his shoulder, to see what he was pointing at.

"Very fine," murmured Dimitry, with a slight sigh. After a long moment, and another sigh, he added, without moving away, "observe the shoulders also."

Consolation, Aubrey reflected, was one of the proper uses of art.

**4\. The Winter Vacation: London, Christmas 1821**

Venetia had gone out that morning in search of the last of her Christmas gifts; Damerel had disappeared, presumably to his club, shortly afterwards. The baby was crying again, and Mrs Tyler (Aubrey refused to think of her as Nurse) could not quiet him. The noise, which had been echoing though the nearly empty house for most of the grey winter's day, suddenly seemed to Aubrey unbearable. Now that he was recalled from the private world of his books, Aubrey realised that he was full of a pent up energy, frustrated and fidgety, as if he had drunk too much tea; and perhaps, he realised, looking at the empty tea pot on the library table, that was what he had done. What he really wanted to do was go for a gallop across open country. But he was in London not Yorkshire, so the day was grey and oppressive, rather than cold and bright; and he would have to settle for a ride around the park.

When he rang to ask for his horse, it was, most unusually, Marsden who appeared. Even more unusually, Marsden paused after receiving his order, cleared his throat respectfully, and indicated that he wished to speak to Mr Lanyon on a certain matter.

"Certainly, Marsden," he said, rather agog to find out why on earth his brother-in-law's valet would wish to speak to him. Marsden clearly believed in keeping his audience in suspense. He cleared his throat once more, and paused before going on.

Eventually he said, "perhaps you recall the new undergroom, Mason, Mr Lanyon?"

Aubrey thought about it.

"I don't believe I do," he replied. "Has he been looking after Bucephalus?"

Marsden cleared his throat again.

"I am not familiar with precise division of duties in the stables, Mr Lanyon. However, Mason has asked me to make him most respectfully known to you; and to communicate to you that he hopes sincerely that you will allow him to be of service to you." Marsden hesitated again, and then looked Aubrey firmly in the eye. "I believe he greatly admires you, sir," he said.

"Oh," said Aubrey, a little taken aback by such a forward communication, puzzled by Marsden's lending himself to such a thing, and entirely unsure what it meant. He decided it didn't really matter.

"Well, I suppose he can bring Bucephalus around then," he said. "I don't mind who does it, so long as they know their business."

"Very good, sir," said Marsden expressionlessly.

Oddly, it was Horvath, the head groom, who brought him Bucephalus, just as usual.

**5\. The Visiting Scholar: Cambridge, Michaelmas term, 1822**

Aubrey's first month as a don at Peterhouse had flown by; even the quite substantial nuisance of teaching had not diluted his joy at finally living, fully and unquestionably, the life to which he had long since dedicated himself.

Life as a fellow had turned out to contain some pleasant, unlooked-for surprises too. For example, sometimes fellows from other colleges were entertained at High Table. More to the point, sometimes they turned out to be excellent company, even where one might not have looked for it. Tonight, for example, Aubrey found himself sitting next to Stevenson, a natural philosopher perhaps ten years his senior, with an interest in optics. But it turned out the man had in fact read classics, and was something of a Latinist; he had been introduced to the study of philosophy by reading Newton's _Philosophiae Naturalis Principia Mathematica_. Rarely had Aubrey found himself so easily able converse with someone who was neither related to him nor particularly interested in the works of Aeschylus. But tonight, there was no difficulty, no awkwardness, and no slow slide into boredom and silence. A rising tide of fellow feeling carried them through the meal and beyond. They discussed the shocking standard of Latin to be found in scientific writing and found themselves in pleasant agreement; they discussed the modern vogue for translation, and found that there were important points on which they were in stimulating and fascinating disagreement; Aubrey dredged up his memories of Euclid's treatise on optics, and listened with fascination to Stevenson's dissection of it; Stevenson recounted how, as an undergraduate, he and some friends had once staged an impromptu reading of _The Frogs_ in front of the fountain, only to be upstaged by the emergency of actual amphibians. And then, finally, breaking apart and looking around, they realised that dinner was long since finished, and when Aubrey, rather diffidently, suggested returning to his rooms for a glass of port, Stevenson had agreed at once.

It was only once they were in his study, facing each other, holding their glasses, that Aubrey found himself suddenly lost for words - tensely aware, as he had been so many times in his undergraduate days at Trinity, of his limp, and how it must appear, how it must disqualify him from consideration even by those who might otherwise be inclined to same desire he felt. He was painfully sure that he knew more or less what he wanted but also that he had no idea how to get it. But there, too, it turned out that things were rather better once one was a don; and that Stevenson and he were of the same mind on all the things that mattered. Unlike him, however, Stevenson, knew what to say.

"I want more than this port," he said. "I want you, too."

"Yes," said Aubrey, "but you'll have to show me."

To Aubrey's delight, he did, and it all turned out to be rather straightforward.

 


End file.
